The Corvette

His brown eyes were full of confidence and his self-assurance had led him into the centre of the cabin where the skylight allowed him to draw himself up to his full height.

'I give you good day, sir. My credentials.' He handed Drinkwater a packet sealed with the fouled anchor wafer of the Admiralty. It contained a second letter and simply instructed Captain Drinkwater to afford every facility to the bearer consistent with the service he was presently engaged upon, as was set out in the bearer's letter of introduction.

Drinkwater opened the enclosed letter. It was dated from London three days earlier.

Honourable Sir,

Having been lately acquainted with Their Lordships' Intention of despatching a ship into Arctic Regions, the Governors of this body conceived it their Christian Duty to carry the word of Christ to the peoples Domiciled upon the Coasts of Greenland. It is with this purpose in mind that you are asked to convey thither the bearer of this letter, the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, D.D., M.D.

Your landing him at a Settlement of the Esquimaux, or causing him to be landed at some such Settlement, will assure you the Warmest Approbation from this Society for your furtherance in the Spread of the Christian Gospel.

The signature was illegible but was accredited to the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society.

Drinkwater put down the letter and looked up. He was beginning to feel the burden of command too great for him and the decanter beckoned seductively.

'Mr Singleton, pray take a seat. Will you take a glass of wine?' He rose.

'I do not drink intoxicating liquors, sir.' Drinkwater sat again, aware that the splendid isolation, the power and the purpose of command was, in reality, a myth. Only men like Palgrave sustained the illusion.

'Mr Singleton, are you aware of the extreme climate of the Arctic regions? Do you mean to winter there among the Eskimos?'

'I do, sir.'

'Entirely alone?'

'With God, sir,' Singleton answered with devastating simplicity. Drinkwater rose, a sense of helpless exasperation filling him. Almost defiantly he helped himself from the decanter, ignoring the disapproval in Singleton's eyes. Well damn Singleton! There would be much that Singleton did not approve of aboard a King's ship.

'But like me, Mr Singleton,' he said sipping the wine, 'you are flesh and blood.'

'Imbued with the Holy Spirit, sir, and the faith that can move mountains.'

'Let us hope,' remarked Drinkwater, 'that your faith sustains you.'

'Amen to that, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the missionary, searching for some gleam of humour evident in the man. There was none. He was an alien amongst them, uncomprehending of their jack-ass humour, unable to understand the bawdy small talk, the rigid divisions that made a man-of-war. Singleton was an academic, a product of universities where the distilled wisdom of a thousand generations might be assimilated within the confines of a library. Drinkwater sighed and drained his glass. Singleton's insufferable self-righteousness would doubtless combine with an assumed right to criticise. That augured ill for the future and Drinkwater could see squalls ahead.

'Where have you been berthed, Mr Singleton? There is little room in the gunroom.'

'I do not think a gunroom a fit place for a missionary, sir. No, Lieutenant Germaney has permitted me to use the cockpit.'

Drinkwater could well imagine it! The harassed lieutenant would not want the intrusion of a priggish irrelevance challenging his position in the gunroom.

'I doubt you will find it to your liking, but this is a small ship and there is no alternative.'

'It is true the air is mephitic, sir, but it will be a fit preparation for my ministry. The darkness alone will condition me to the Arctic winter.'

'It was not the darkness I had in mind, Mr Singleton, but no matter. You will see soon enough.' He ignored Singleton's puzzlement and went on: 'There is one thing you should know and that is that while you remain aboard this ship you are answerable for your conduct under the Articles of War as surely as if you were truly a midshipman. You will doubtless observe things that you do not approve of. Have you ever seen a flogging, sir? No? Well, it does not matter but you must accept that the usages of the naval service will come as a surprise to you and you would do well to remember that the wooden bulwarks behind which your church so comfortably nestles, are purchased at the price of blood, sweat and indignity'

Singleton ignored this homily. 'When do you propose to land me, sir?'

'Land you? Good heavens, do not trouble me with such matters now. First I have to get these confounded ships out of this Goddamned river!'

Drinkwater saw the look of shock on Singleton's face and found that it gave him a pleasurable sensation. 'Saving your cloth, Mr Singleton,' he said ironically and added, 'I should like you to join the officers and dine with me this evening. And I should like you to make no hasty judgements about the sea service; parsons have a bad reputation at sea, far worse than that of seamen ashore.'

He rose and smiled, dismissing Singleton abruptly as another knock came at the cabin door. The purser entered.

'You sent for me, sir?'

'I did, Mr Pater… I shall see you at dinner, Mr Singleton.'

'Your man has arrived, sir,' put in the purser, 'they are swinging your baggage aboard now.'

'Excellent. Will you take a glass, Mr Pater?'

'With pleasure, sir.'

'Thou should'st address the ship's head a half-point more to starboard.'

Drinkwater nodded at Hill as the master sought his approval.

Melusine leaned slightly as the wind shifted forward a trifle as they altered course. The distant banks of the broad river were low and barely perceptible as the steeples and roofs of Hull dropped astern. Drinkwater raised his glass and studied the two vessels hoisting their topsails off Killingholme. The Hudson Bay Company's ships were superbly fitted, of a similar size to Melusine and with the appearance of sixth-rates of the smallest class. They were certainly a contrast to the squat whalers following Melusine down the river.

'Thou hast competition in the matter of elegance, Captain.'

'You object to elegance, Captain Sawyers?'

'It is irrelevant to the true meaning of life, Captain.'

'How will the Faithful fare with you piloting Melusine from the Humber?' asked Drinkwater, changing the subject and feeling preached at for the second time in as many days.

'My son is a chief mate, Captain Drinkwater, a man as skilled as myself.'

'Come, sir,' put in Drinkwater grinning, 'that is immodest!'

'Not at all. Ability is a gift from God as manifest as physical strength or the fact that I have brown hair. I do not glory in it, merely state it.'

Drinkwater felt out-manoeuvred on his own quarterdeck and turned to look astern. Alone among the whale- ships foaming in their wake, Faithful was without a garland slung between fore and mainmasts. The ancient symbol of a Greenlander's love-tokens was absent from her topgallant rigging, neither were there so many flags as were flying from the other ships. Drinkwater wondered how many of Sawyers's crew shared his gentle and sober creed. Perhaps his rumoured success at the fishery reconciled them to a lack of ostentation as was customary on sailing day.

The other ships were under no such constraint. The otherwise dull appearance of the whale-ships was enlivened by streamers, ensigns and pendants bearing their names, lovingly fashioned by their wives and sweethearts whose fluttering handkerchiefs had long since vanished. The embroidered pendant that flew from Nimrod's mainmasthead was fifty feet long, an oriflamme of scarlet, and Drinkwater could see the dominating figure of Jemmett Ellerby at the break of her poop.

Nimrod was crowding on sail and bid fair to pass Melusine as she slipped easily along at six knots, going large before the wind under her topsails and